


till my fears come to fruition, im not scared

by librarby



Series: ocd jon [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, jon faces the horrifying ordeal of being known, sasha faces the ordeal of getting her boss out of his office for once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:55:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27054520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librarby/pseuds/librarby
Summary: Everything feels just off, as though Jon’s trying to step onto a top stair that doesn’t exist. He’s suspended in that state, falling into the realization that something isn’t exactly right but still not yet knowing what that thing is.[title from dr. sunshine is dead by will wood and the tapeworms]
Relationships: Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: ocd jon [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1864858
Comments: 12
Kudos: 70





	till my fears come to fruition, im not scared

**Author's Note:**

> this fic explores obsessive compulsive disorder, based off my own experiences with ocd. it does not represent all ocd experiences!  
> this fic is part of [a series!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1864858) reading the other fics are not needed to understand this fic, but is greatly appreciated & allows for a better representation of jon's ocd :—)

Jon pauses for a moment outside the door, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart.

It's idiotic, frankly, that he's this on edge. He’s not in any danger, not getting chased by one of those (made up) beasts in the statements. He’s not even going into Elias’ office or another place where this fear would make sense. 

The door in front of him reads, in blocky font, _Archives Break Room_.

There are two things in the break room, two things that mean only pain and suffering for him in one way or another. Two reasons he avoids this place at nearly all costs. 

He takes one more shaky breath and smooths down the front of his skirt before pushing open the door. 

As luck would have it, both of these two things are waiting for him behind it.

First being his coworkers. Not his coworkers themselves, per say (though Martin continues to be nothing but an irritant since he was transferred here), it’s just that they’re...here. This is where his Archival Assistants hang out on their lunch breaks. He can hear them even in his office sometimes, laughing at something funny Tim’s said. 

It feels rude to encroach on them. After all, Sasha and Tim have known one another longer than he and Tim have, and they should get to know Martin anyway, what with him coming all the way from the Library to the Archives. They should mingle, he best not get in their way. 

It’s better that way, for all parties involved. 

The second thing is the goddamn microwave. 

He can’t risk it, not with the numbers flashing at him like they’re just _daring_ him to look. Not with what happened the last time he was in here, calmly eating his lunch when he saw particular numeric combination that sent his heart to the ground and his mind back to a particular children's book. He barely got his office door closed with how hard he was shaking and even Tim seemed concerned with how red his eyes were when he entered an hour later with a follow up. 

Still, now he’s stuck here, standing in the doorway while his Assistants stare at him with varied expressions. 

(Tim: surprised elation, Sasha: a gentle smile, and Martin—well, Martin’s not looking at him at all, as he seems to have developed an intense interest in his own food.)

“Boss!” Tim’s golden retriever energy is, as usual, boundless and just on the edge of irritating (though he’s had years of exposure at this point now, so he doesn’t find it as annoying as he knows he should). “Are you finally eating with us?” 

“Unfortunately, no. I was simply getting my lunch.” Jon says, gesturing to the fridge as he opens it to search for the container he placed in there earlier. 

Martin chimes in next. “Um, are you sure you don’t want to, uh, to stay? I can make you some tea. Er, if you wanted.” 

“No thank you, Martin.” Jon says as he pops the lid off the container, resisting the draw of the red blinking of the microwave next to him ( _don’t look don’t look don’t look d—)_. “I was just going to heat this up and be on my way.”

“Oh.” Martin says, and he sounds...disappointed? 

(No, no. It's clearly just his imagination.)

Sasha puts down her sandwich. “Come on, Jon.” She says. “Eat with us for _once_. It’ll do you some good to be out of your office anyway.” 

Jon busies himself with getting the microwave to work so that he doesn’t have to face them. “I’m afraid I have work to do.” 

“Come on, just think of it like...like team bonding!” Tim says. “We’re a team, and you can bond with us. Elias can’t get mad at you for _that_.” 

Jon huffs, turning back around to face them. 

“If I join you, will you quit pestering me about it?” 

“Deal.” Tim says immediately, reaching over and pulling a chair between him and Martin. 

Before Jon can back out of this arrangement he's now caught himself in, Sasha turns back to the other two and quickly jumps back into the conversation they were having before he arrived (interrupted). 

The microwave beeps. He takes his food out ( _don’t look don’t look d—)_ , moves some bits of meat around with a fork, then decides it’s heated enough and carries it over to the chair Tim has provided. 

Sasha is waving her hands animatedly, eyes sparkling as she describes her latest interest, which Jon slowly pieces together is an allegedly haunted castle out in Scotland. 

He does try to keep it to himself but eventually he speaks up, throwing in a few sentences about how _it can’t be ghosts, Sasha, I’m sure it’s just the wind they’re hearing or perhaps some sort of animal or—_

(He knows Sasha believes. Sometimes it shocks him that someone as smart as her would fall for it, just like the statements she's convinced are true. 

He wonders if she’s also seen something that couldn’t be real, something she tries to forget. Something she is both searching for and running from at the same time). 

Tim makes a joke, something about Victorian ghosts, and sort of jostles his arm. He just huffs and makes some dry remark back, but doesn’t move his arm from where their elbows are now touching. 

Even Martin offers up some explanations for Sasha’s castle ghosts, though his are just about what Jon would expect (re: bad). Still, he catches Jon’s gaze across the table and grins. 

Not exactly the behavior of people who loathe him or detest his existence. 

And then, of course, everything goes to hell.

It’s the goddamn microwave. He’d forgotten about it, forgotten to be vigilant and avoidant, lost himself in this camaraderie, this _friendship,_ that he barely recognized what he was looking at until it registered. 

1:23. Numbers all in a row, laid out in a sequence, staring him in the face and laughing. 

In Jon’s life, there are no coincidences. Things happen and they happen for a reason. If he focuses hard enough, sometimes he swears he can see the tiny threads that connect everything together, but as soon as he sees them, he blinks and they’re gone. 

The numbers have been a part of this game since he was a kid. Jon knows they’re just that, just numbers. But at the very same time, he can _feel_ that they have meaning, something that either stirs up a horrible, sinking feeling inside his chest or allows him a brief respite, filling him with a calm that he can't recreate no matter how hard he tries.

Numbers like that, though, well, they’re the former. 

1:23. One-two-three. One-two-three. Onetwothree. Onetwothree. Onetwothree. Four, four, four, four, four, four, four, four, f—

“Jon?” Martin’s voice sounds far away, even though he’s sitting next to him. “Are you alright?” 

Jon manages to get something out about having to leave now, _immediately,_ before doing just that. 

His office is many things: a source of pain and irritation, a place he’s spent too many unpaid, sleepless nights, but right now; right now it’s a bunker, a security blanket. He closes the door with a decisive click and presses his hands against his eyes for a moment, just feeling the pressure, willing it to be enough. 

It’s not (it never is). 

His hands buzz, so he flicks the light a few times.

(One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine. Nine is good. Nine he can do.)

His hands buzz. His head buzzes. His chest buzzes. 

(Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnine. Nine is good.)

Everything feels just off, as though he’s trying to step onto a top stair that doesn’t exist. He’s suspended in that state, falling into the realization that something isn’t exactly right but still not yet knowing what that thing is. 

(One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine. Why isn’t it working? Nine is good, nine should _help_.)

Jon drops his hand from the lightswitch, because it’s not that. It’s not that, and now he needs to find what it is so he can stop it. 

(It: the buzzing in his chest, the pounding in his head, the terror in his throat.)

Someone knocks on the door. 

(One. Two.)

He breathes. 

(One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.)

“Jon?” 

It’s Sasha. She knocks once more. 

(One. Two. Three.) 

(He taps his knuckles against the wood just once. Four.)

“Jon? Are you okay? It’s me.” She pauses for a second. “ _Just_ me.” 

He stares at the doorknob, which now seems miles away. Sasha sounds like she’s far away too, even if they’re just separated by a slab of wood older than Jon is. 

“You don’t have to open the door if you don’t want to, but I’ll sit out here for a bit if you want to talk.” She says and, sure enough, he hears the sound of metal chair legs scraping against the badly carpeted concrete that spreads out over most of the Archives. 

His hands itch to hit the light again, but he doesn’t want her to see (he’s worked _so hard_ to hide this, and he’s not going to stop trying, even if it is pointless now). Instead, he taps a little pattern along the wall, tracing a path that means _safety, security, protection._

Sasha doesn’t leave. 

He traces it once more for good measure. 

There’s a noise like a flipping page and she realizes she has a goddamn book.

(He’d be angry if it didn’t remind him so much of himself.)

He reaches out a tentative hand, pausing for just a second, then flicks the light slowly, then quicker until the pressure in his fingertips steadies to a gentle hum. 

A page turn. 

Jon opens the door. 

Sasha looks up, placing a careful bookmark in her book. “Hi.” 

“Come inside?” He asks, less as a question and more as a plea. 

She does so without a word, walking in and taking her usual spot sitting on the edge of his desk. Normally he’d huff something at her about it, but he’s both preoccupied with, well, all of _this._ Besides, his annoyance is usually a facade he puts on for Tim, so he doesn’t test Jon's patience by attempting to do the same.

(It’s different when it’s her. She’s Sasha.)

“What’s going on?” Sasha asks. Her voice is soft but firm, in that inquisitive way that she asks all her questions. Her hands play idly with the hem of her skirt and Jon suddenly has the desire to do the very same. 

He slumps into his chair and rubs at the fabric of his skirt, trying his best to focus on the way the soft cotton moves under the pads of his fingers. 

“I don’t know.” He says, though he does know, he just doesn’t know how to put it into words, how to explain it in a way that makes sense. 

How to explain so he doesn’t sound like a complete lunatic.

Somehow, Sasha seems to understand, just blinking slowly at him as though expecting him to say more. 

And, because it’s Sasha, he does. 

“It was...the, ah, the numbers.” Jon stammers, though the words sound insane even to his own ears. Here he is, being no better than any of the goddamn maniacs that stumble through the Archive doors, shouting about whatever evil apparition they believe to be the source of all their issues. 

Sasha James does not look at him like he looks at the statement givers. She doesn’t look at him with pity, like his old psychiatrist did, or with concern veiled as indifference, like Georgie used to.

Sasha James looks at him like a friend. Like someone she cares about. Like someone deserving of her attention and time. 

(It’s been a long, long time since someone has looked at Jonathan Sims that way.)

“On the microwave.” He clarifies. “It was in a sequence, which, in _my_ experience, is never good.”

She nods. “Okay. What can we do to help?” 

He blinks. "What?"

Sasha tilts her head to the side. “We can cover the, uh, the clock in there if you’d like. Or is there somewhere else we could eat?” 

It slowly dawns on him that she _wants_ to make things easier for him. That she (and, by extension, his other two assistants who are being noticeably quieter in the bullpen right now) want to see...more of him? 

“I, er—” He says eloquently. 

“We keep inviting you to eat with us and if this is what’s stopping you, then we want to get rid of it.” Sasha says. “You’re a part of this team, even if you don’t want to be.” 

“I do.” He says quickly, surprising the both of them. Sighing, he adds: “I do want to be a part of this, with the three of you. I just...I’m not exactly used to people wanting to be around me, I suppose. Not when I’m—” He gestures to himself vaguely. 

(For some, the skirt was enough. If that didn’t put them off, his prickly nature and (mostly) accidental rudeness would drive them off after. 

Jonathan Sims is very used to being alone. 

But maybe here, maybe here he doesn’t have to be.)

“You do realize this is _exactly_ why we want to be around you, right?” Sasha says, giving him that face that she does when she’s figured something out and he hasn’t (it’s usually frustrating, but this particular instance doesn’t seem to get on his nerves). “You’re weird, I’ll give you that. Even by Institute standards.” He opens his mouth to protest but she quickly cuts him off. 

“But so are we. Have you _heard_ Tim when he gets going about that artitecture guy?” 

“Robert Smirke.” Jon says, rolling his eyes. “Yes, I have unfortunately been on the receiving end of _that_ lecture several times.” 

“Because he _cares_ about you, you dolt.” Sasha says. “You think he talks about that with just anyone who comes through the door? That’s his project, his _thing_. Just like Martin has his poetry, and just like I have my entirely legal online escapades.”

He gives her a pointed look. They’ve talked about her...unique skill set a few times so far. “If Elias finds out—”

“He won’t.” She waves her hand, grinning. “Elias doesn’t have eyes everywhere, you know. Relax.” 

“Certainly feels like it.” He says, shifting a little in his seat.

(The feeling of being watched permeates through the whole institute, though he swears it gets stronger with every step down into the Archives, centering entirely on his office. But that seems self centered somehow, to think that whatever is up there _looking_ cares at all about him.)

Sasha sighs. “Look. I don’t know how long it’ll take to get through your thick skull that we care about you, but I’m willing to brute force it if I have to.” 

Jon sighs too, but manages to smile at her. “That...that won’t be necessary, Sasha. I...I’m trying, you know that right?” 

“I do.” She says, meeting his eyes, and for once he feels seen in a way that feels...good. 

Before he can speak up again, she hops off his desk and gestures to the door. “Well. I think we earned ourselves an extended lunch break.” 

Jon’s eyes flick down to the pile of unsorted statements on his desk, then back up at Sasha, who is standing with one hand on her hip and the other on the doorknob. 

He stands and follows her out the door, flicking the lightswitch only three times. 

* * *

(The clock on the microwave is covered in thick duct tape. 

Elias makes a comment about it, but just receives three irritated glares, so he backs off. 

Perhaps his Archivist can have this one solace.) 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ jonbinary! comments & kudos sustain me <3


End file.
